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  • Writer's pictureNoel Leon

Dirty Laundry Dating Dilemma

I’m single and really trying to meet people off of the apps. Believe it or not my dry cleaner is really cute. Also, believe it or not, he doesn’t seem interested. He’s yet to ask me why I’m bringing in blood-wine-urine-stained couch cushions. Not only has he not asked me, I’ve never felt so judged. I actually think we’re moving too fast. I’ve literally given him all of my dirty laundry up front and I’ve gotten nothing back.

I saw a surfboard in his car parked out back once and thought, maybe I’ll impress him with my smooth shred of the gnar. So, I took up surfing. My options did expand as I hit the beach. Surfers are so hot! Maybe, I didn’t even need to learn how to surf. I could just lay out with a board and a wetsuit, while macking on all the babes. Mother may I! Listen, there’s literal sharks in the water. And, I’ve had way too many near death experiences to take a risk. I once got stung by a jellyfish just dipping my toes in. Of my nine lives I maybe have one left. And, (if you’ve read my previous articles) I’m saving that last one for my 80’s when I get heavy into heroine.

Okay, shocker. I’m not a genius. “Groupie girls” with the same idea were already hogging the sand. The fear of being associated with such desperado forced me into the water. At least I could say I died for love… or my image. My therapist says I’m “terminally unique,” a compliment I don’t take lightly. I had no other choice than to uniquely stand out from the pack and brave the belly of the beast. I braved, and I swallowed (a lot of water). The ocean belched me right out. Did I mention I don’t know how to swim?

I needed to get a surfing instructor, but I was worried I’d fall in love with him. And, I really didn’t want to get into a love triangle that only I was aware of. They’re exhausting. See, trauma survivors often fall in love with their rescuers. And, surely I would drown sooner than later. So, I picked a gay guy to teach me. He’s literally the only gay surf instructor I could find. I just couldn’t bring myself to cheat on my dry cleaner…even an innocuous affair with a gay man I would inevitably turn straight.

Time not mastering the waves, would be spent at my dry cleaners, winning him over with gratuitous tales from each of my new stains. “This one… see this one right here? Do you think you can get it out? I fell saving a cat from a tree. Well, my dog was attacking the cat.. It was all very heroic on my part…”

Did I enjoy surfing? I’m not sure. I was too distracted, thinking of the of shark attack videos I’d watched each day in preparation. Was it great Instagram content? Yes. Did my dry cleaner actually follow me on Instagram? No. So, was the whole thing a waste? I don’t know, but wearing my wet suit all day (so it looked worn when I brought to the cleaners) was causing some serious chafing.

One fateful day, I accidentally splashed marinara sauce all over my suit. As Boccelli played in the background, I realized I was finally ready to show my dry cleaner our shared interest, surfing. This was the crimson stain that would seal our fate in love. He would ignore all my dirty laundry and we would start fresh like the Febreeze my clothes always smelt like. Our biracial babies would ask “Daddy when did you know that Mommy was the one?” And, he would say, “When I touched her wetsuit for the very first time.” That sounds corny, but it’s entirely realistic. Listen, at least we had two things in common surfing and Febreeze. People get married for way less, like money and religion.

There was one minor hiccup in my plan that created a real emergency. The marinara somehow bonded with my sweat, sticking the wetsuit to my skin. I tried to take it off for hours, pouring olive oil, vinegar, and a little salt down the suit. At least I could bring it there and offer him dinner… off my body. (Picture that episode of Friends where Ross is struggling in his tight leather pants only more tragic and less funny.) Surely, my dear dry cleaner would know what to do. In a city of stoners, I can’t be the only person whose glued themselves to their wetsuit. Also, I could definitely play a seductive damsel in distress as I let him rip it off me. (“And the Oscar goes to… Noel for looking sexy while in excruciating pain.”) It was near closing time so I called them, asking if they could stay open.

His dad (I’m assuming the namesake of Wang’s Cleaners) answered. And, as I explained my predicament, he began yelling over me in Chinese. In this politically charged climate, he must have misinterpreted my tone.

Me: “I CAN’T TAKE OFF MY WETSUIT!”

“CAN YOU STAY OPEN TO TAKE OFF MY PANTS?”

“CAN I SPEAK TO YOUR SON?”

He hung up. A week later, I mustered the courage to drag my destroyed wetsuit and broken ego to the cleaners only to find a photo of myself on the wall. Mugshots of banned customers smiled beside my framed face under a sign that read “NOT WELCOME.” (Not the worst publicity I’ve ever had.) Hot dry cleaner guy scowled behind the counter, while gesturing me to leave.


Me: But — I?!

Does this count as another restraining order I guess I’ll have to settle for my postman.


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